


Holder of the Heart

by firenewt



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gift Fic, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 11:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenewt/pseuds/firenewt
Summary: Sometimes an object is much more than it appears.





	Holder of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrabOfDoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrabOfDoom/gifts).



> Written for FVII Rare Pair Week 2019, Day 3. The prompt was "things".
> 
> The quote at the end was a message that I received several years ago. It meant alot to me then, and still resonates powerfully with me now, but I'm happy to share it with Lazard and Sephiroth. I think it applies to them both.
> 
> Written for CrabofDoom, because of reasons.
> 
> Disclaimer: Thanks to Square Enix for letting me play in their world.

Holder of the Heart

The tension in Lazard’s office was so thick it was choking. The two Thirds stood at rigid attention against the far wall, staring into space and trying desperately to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Sephiroth lounged in a chair meant for visitors, placed at an angle and to one side in front of Lazard’s large desk. Nothing in his posture indicated any sign of disturbance, but his eyes followed everything intently. Dark Nation prowled back and forth before the door, growling and sharply lashing her tentacle. Whenever she passed the Thirds she made a point of showing them her teeth and threatening to shock them. 

Lazard sat behind his desk, hands clasped on it in front of him, stony faced and silent. His head turned slightly back and forth to follow the Vice President’s movements. Rufus had stormed into the office while he was meeting with his SOLDIERs, interrupted without so much as a by-your-leave, and launched into a tirade. He had been raging for almost fifteen minutes, his voice sometimes rising to a bellow, his face flushed and his eyes like chips of blue ice. He came to a sudden stop in front of the desk. 

He loomed over Lazard. “WELL? WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!” he demanded.

Lazard’s nostrils flared slightly, and Sephiroth could see his jaw clench as he drew a deep breath and paused before replying. “I see your point, sir,” he said calmly. “I will personally take care of it immediately.”

“Damn right you will! I expect a detailed written explanation on my desk by tomorrow morning! And you will personally explain all this and apologize to the Board!”

“Of course, sir. I’d be happy to.”

Rufus made a noise a pressure cooker being released, sneering at the seated man. “Useless!” he spat. His coat swirled out as he turned abruptly on his heel. “Dark!” The Hound moved quickly to his side to accompany him out. As Rufus strode toward the exit, every inch of him telegraphing that his anger was in no way spent, he swept out his arm and deliberately knocked a vase off its display shelf. It crashed to the floor as the door closed behind him. 

There was dead silence. Lazard looked straight ahead, not moving, hardly breathing. Two spots of pink stood out on his cheekbones, contrasting with his otherwise pale face, and making him look like he had a fever. No doubt he felt rather ill. Sephiroth was debating whether he should say anything, when Lazard blinked and swallowed, then placed his hands on the edge of his desk and pushed himself gently backwards. He stood and fastened the middle button on his jacket, his movements casually matter-of-fact, and stepped out from behind his desk. He nodded to the Thirds, whose red faces and clenched fists betrayed their feelings, though they continued to avoid eye contact and pretend that they had not noticed anything. SOLDIER was a tight-knit group, and their first loyalty was to their comrades and to their leaders, including their Director. To them, he held direct control over their lives and well-being; he took good care of them, and in return they respected him. It was very hard, especially for the lower ranks, to see him being berated like a cadet that had royally fucked up. They should not have had to witness that at all. 

“General Sephiroth will finish briefing you later. Dismissed.” 

The exhalations of relief were audible. “Yes, sir!” the Thirds barked in unison, and almost tripped over each other in their haste to get out of the office.

The door closed behind them, and again it was silent.

Lazard stood in the middle of his office, looking at the remains of his vase. It was a rare antique ginbari cloisonné vase, about a foot high, that he had first noticed in the background of a series of still photos that had been part of report on trade sanctions against Wutai. It had taken him over two years to track the vase down, discover who owned it, and eventually purchase it. The cost was astronomical. It was one of a kind, yes, and very old, but the fact that he couldn’t hide his need to have it was his undoing. The owner immediately saw the longing in his eyes, the way he couldn’t stop looking at it or touching it, and the price went up accordingly. But it was worth it. When he finally unpacked it, slowly and reverently, he felt happiness and satisfaction like he had rarely felt before. 

He had few enough personal effects in his office, but this was something he wanted near him at all times. It didn’t matter to him that no one else knew what it was, or its value…except Genesis, who had actually done a double take when he had first seen it, and looked back and forth between it and Lazard several times. Lazard had allowed himself a tiny smile at the First, like a cat that had been in the cream. Genesis still hadn’t questioned him about it, but he did stare at it with fascination whenever he was in the Director’s office, and then at its owner with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Lazard had a special shelf put up for it, on the far wall of his office, so he could see it whenever he looked up from his desk. It calmed and soothed him just to know it was there, and looking at it transported him to another world.

It was mostly an intense blue; the myriad little facets that covered it made the surface shimmer and gave it depth. It reminded him of Sephiroth’s eyes, though he would never have admitted that to anyone. There was an intricate hand painted pattern on one side, a scimitar shape swooping across the body of the vase, outlined in black and gold and red, and fronting an abstract background of layered shades and motifs, floral and feathery and geometric. The effect was something that looked to him like a sword dangling from the hip of someone wearing a brightly coloured coat. The bold exotic colours and shapes gave him a flavour of far off lands and romantic swashbuckling escapades, where men lived dangerously, passions were high and one didn’t hide them because one never knew if he would be alive the next day. It whispered to him that life was to be plunged into and every drop of it savored to its fullest, with a heart full and overflowing, not starving and withering slowly in the dark. 

In any case, it was gone now. Rufus had done a thorough job of smashing it. The pieces were beyond repair, some of them disintegrated into powdery glassy bits. The loss hadn’t fully hit him yet. He just felt numb and hollow, and his mind refused to even accept it. 

Sephiroth had immediately seen the vase, of course, when it appeared. He did not miss the significance of its placement, or the change in Lazard’s expression and attitude whenever he looked at it. To him, the shimmering blue surface was reminiscent of sunlight on water, and the gold and black and red was the afterimage behind his eyelids from staring at the ocean on a sunny day. He could almost feel the heat of high summer, and the cool breeze coming off the sea, and how the silence of an isolated beach pressed in on his eardrums, until, beyond his own breathing, he could hear the shifting of individual grains of sand, and the water moving toward the beach like a soft sigh, and the little _bip_ as the almost non-existent waves tipped over on the shore. The moments in his life when he was truly alone, and at leisure, were so few and far between that they were burned indelibly into his memory. And the vase took him back to that hot summer day. 

He would never admit it, but the gold reminded him of Lazard’s hair, and the red of how he smelled faintly of sweet spices, and it all beguiled him into imagining going back to that beach sometime, but this time sharing it with just one other person. 

And now it seemed that his dream had been shattered the moment the vase hit the ground. Sephiroth felt a great anger, that Shin-Ra, in the form of Rufus, had taken yet one more thing from him. One more possibility. One more almost unacknowledged little hope. 

Slowly, Sephiroth rose from his chair. He moved up beside Lazard, not touching him, but so close that Lazard could feel his body heat. Somehow, though they had never spoken of the vase, Lazard knew that Sephiroth understood his pain and loss, and, despite the shock of what had just occurred with the Vice President, that this was the greater trauma. 

“Your orders, sir?” Sephiroth said quietly. With three words simple words he showed where his loyalty lay. 

Lazard took a moment to reply. “Nothing.” He met Sephiroth’s concerned gaze for a moment, and his mouth quirked briefly in a small, sad parody of a smile. “Nothing right now, General. Thank you.”

Lazard headed toward the door, detouring around the shards on the floor, and left. 

Sephiroth stood quietly for a few minutes. Then he tossed his hair back, and started to carefully collect the debris.

The next weeks were some of the worst of Lazard’s life. The fallout from Rufus’ tantrum reverberated through several departments, but SOLDIER caught most of it. As Director, he put aside his personal feelings, locking them away, and showed his men how a professional dealt with adversity. Rebuilding moral was a priority, right up there with appeasing the Board. It was exhausting, lonely, thankless work, but he knew his duty. But beyond that, his commitment and care for those under his command somewhat lightened the load.

One morning, after yet another sleepless night, Lazard entered his office, carrying a giant mug of hot coffee and grimacing as his phone notified him of yet another surprise meeting now booked for that morning. As he looked up from reading the text, he thought his tired eyes and even more tired mind were playing tricks on him. On his desk stood his precious vase. 

Unbelieving, he went toward it. He sank into his chair, just remembering to put his coffee down instead of dropping it, and ran his fingers gingerly over its surface. It was indeed the same vase. Close up, he could see, and feel, the web of tiny cracks that covered it. Here and there were small gaps where the original material had obviously had to be replaced with a substitute. There had been no effort to hide those spots, and, in fact, they wove themselves into the overall pattern, changing it slightly but not hiding it or marring it unredeemably. There were a few chips in the rim and the base but it was otherwise intact. The biggest difference was a thin transparent coating that had been applied to the entire outer surface. He could feel it, more than see it, and he knew it must be one of the new high performance transparent polymers that the Science Department was working on. It gave the vase strength and helped to preserve its integrity, without obscuring its delicate beauty.

It was not good as new, but it was whole, and its original allure and energy were still there. Lazard felt tears prick his eyes, and took off his glasses to quickly wipe them. After so many weeks of keeping his emotions at bay, this small gesture had undone him. No, it wasn’t small. It was a miracle, an incredible feat, that anyone could have reassembled something from such total destruction, restoring something that meant so much to him...and in the process starting to reassemble his heart. And he knew who had done it.

As he blew his nose, he noticed the corner of a small piece of paper sticking out from under the base of the vase. He pulled it out, read it and the tears flowed harder, but he was smiling.

_"Even a vessel that is cracked and broken can still serve."_


End file.
